John Drake smiled. "I'll send a gentle one first, Diggory," he said. He called up Master Jeffreys and Nick Johnson. "Which of ye two speaks the better Spanish?"

"I had the longer chance to learn the language," replied Nick, ruefully rubbing the place denuded of an ear; "but Master Timothy doubtless possesses the choicer collection of words."

"Quantity will serve us better than quality, perhaps. But go, both of ye, to the commandant and tell him that Captain Drake of the Golden Boar out of Plymouth will wait upon him at sunrise to-morrow. Take a ship's boat with four rowers and four archers, and let the Indians guide you."

A boat was instantly lowered, Nick made the Indians understand what was required of them, and the deputation rowed ashore. Their comrades watched them curiously, and an equally interested group of natives gathered on the shore to await their arrival.

The keel bit into the sand, the two messengers stepped out, and the escort of archers formed up behind them. The rowers pushed the boat back so that it floated easily, then shipped their oars and waited. One of the Indians, proud of his position, strutted importantly at the head of the small procession. (The unfortunate fellow was soundly whipped before nightfall for rendering any assistance to the hated English.) Natives hung about in little groups, but no Spaniard was seen until the gate of the castle was reached. There a sleepy sentinel yawned at them until they had repeated for the third time their request for an interview with the commandant. That officer was indulging in "siesta" and refused to be disturbed, and the deputation was still on the outer side of the gate. Master Jeffreys lost his patience and his temper. "My message to thy master, fellow, was a civil one," he exclaimed, "and to the effect that Captain Drake of Plymouth, Devon, England, would honour him by waiting upon him at sunrise to-morrow. Now, methinks, Captain Drake will come to him in less ceremonious fashion and without further delay." The irate Devonian turned on his heel and strode off.

And by so doing he missed the gratification of seeing the effect of his words. The name of "Drake" twice repeated acted as a talisman on the slumberous senses of the sentinel. His jaw dropped in sudden terror; he stared for a moment at the retreating figures, and then dashed into the castle at a run.

He burst in upon his drowsy commander.

"Alas, signor, what have we done! The army of the saints preserve us!"

"From what, blockhead?"

"From the archfiend in the flesh. 'Tis Drake that hath sailed into the bay."

The commandant sat and gaped in stupid affright.

"Drake!" shouted the soldier.

He had no need to say more. His officer's chin dropped on to his breast. "We are dead men," he muttered. "Why has he come hither? We have no gold, no treasure-ships. He will burn the place over our heads." The man continued muttering to himself and fingering the buckle of his loosened belt.

The soldier looked through the window. "The Englishmen stand on the beach," he said, "talking with Ayatlan, the chief. There is no movement on the ship; no one signals. The messengers were civil when they came."

"Son of a donkey!" blazed forth the commandant, "why didst not thou say so? Run after them; prevent them from carrying angry faces to the robber who rules them. If I had men—not sheep—under me, I would fight this Drake; I'd rid the world of him, and Pope and king should bless me. But run, run!"

And the soldier ran. Terror lent wings to his heels. One name rang through his brain, and the name was "Drake." He caught Master Timothy just re-embarking his little band. The sight of the Indians restored him to some measure of dignity, and he volubly explained that the Spanish captain had not understood the signer's message. He apologized profusely, and promised that his commandant would make amends for the mistake by paying the great sea-captain a visit as soon as a boat could be made ready.

Nick understood more of the rapidly spoken Spanish than did Jeffreys, and he was satisfied. "There has doubtless been a mistake," he said to his companion. "Probably this knave never carried our message properly. He is scared half out of his wits, and looks like a rogue condemned to be hanged. All's well that ends well. Let us be getting back to the ship with a friendly report."

About an hour later, the commandant, accompanied by an imposing retinue, both Spanish and Indian, rowed out to the Golden Boar. Captain Drake and the gentlemen of his company had been to their wardrobes and donned their best, and the visitors by no means carried off the prize for the splendour of their array. As far as physique was concerned the Dons were completely outclassed. Sallow and listless from tropical fevers and loose living, they stood in sharp contrast to the brawny, clear-skinned Englishmen. The difference was obvious even to their own proud eyes, and they felt it.

No sooner were the Spaniards aboard than they fixed their gaze on the group on the upper deck, and one thought prevailed in the minds of all—"Which was the terrible Drake?"

Morgan stood out above his fellows by a good head, but surely he was too young! The commandant had heard that Drake was no giant; he had also heard—and half believed—that he had horns, hoof, and a tail. The puzzle was solved. Captain Drake, short, burly, bearded, black-haired, bull-throated, but blue-eyed, stood forward; his air was unmistakably one of command. Master Jeffreys undertook the duties of master of the ceremonies, and the commanders were introduced to each other and gracefully bowed their acknowledgments of the honour.

The interview was short and formal. The Spaniard welcomed the Englishmen, and hoped that the peace would not be broken. Captain Drake echoed his hopes. The commandant offered presents of fruit, wine, and fresh meat; the skipper accepted and requited the kindness in suitable fashion. A few flagons of wine were drunk, and the interview ended. The company aboard the Golden Boar had no great opinion of their visitors, but the visitors had a better one of them. They had noted the spick and span order on shipboard, the bearing of the men, and they did not forget the name of the captain—they only made the mistake of confounding him with the great admiral, his brother.



Chapter XXXII.

A GLIMPSE OF THE FABLED CITY.

A week went by, and the Golden Boar still lay in the bay of San Joseph. Her captain and the Spanish commandant had exchanged many civilities, and the latter was surprised that the fire-eating Drake had committed no deed of violence. He suspected that some deep scheme lay hidden behind all this appearance of friendliness and courtesy. His suspicions were, in a measure, correct; he was wrong only in his idea of the nature of the Englishman's plans. Double guards were set round the fort each night, and the native chief was compelled to sleep within its walls. Morning after morning the Spaniards awoke, surprised to find that the hours of darkness had brought no sudden assault on the fortress. The natives freely visited the ship with fruit, flowers, and meats, and the English sailors spent hours ashore, wandering in the near forests or fraternizing with the natives on the beach. The Spaniards imagined their own midnight extermination was being planned, and therefore was the chieftain compelled to sleep within reach of a Spanish sword, and his subjects were given to understand that the first sound of tumult in the darkness would end Ayatlan's life. The commandant apparently forgot that the great admiral had sacked towns three times the size of San Joseph with a less capable force than the crew of the Golden Boar.

Truth to tell, Captain Drake had never once contemplated any attack on San Joseph; he valued the place at less than a scratch on an Englishman's skin. His stay in the harbour was dictated solely by a desire to glean information concerning the Orinoco and the land of gold that he sought. The delta of the great river lay, the nearest land, to the south of the island; the natives professed to know much of the river and the tribes dwelling on its banks, and they exchanged mysterious nods and signs one with another when "El Dorado" was mentioned.

Presents were liberally bestowed, and promises were scattered broadcast. Dan Pengelly and the two Johnsons, often accompanied by Master Jeffreys and Morgan, spent hours at the doors of native huts, eagerly questioning the Indians, or listening to long, jumbled stories, eked out in a jargon of Spanish and Indian. Almost invariably they came away as wise as they went. The natives either knew nothing of real significance or would not disclose their secrets.

The adventurers grew impatient. They were in no mood to spend day after day idling off a dirty Spanish-Indian settlement. Their thoughts aye fled southwards, and they wanted to spread sail and follow their thoughts. Dan's papers had been read and re-read until many knew them by heart. But they obviously contained little, save rumours and vague indications of locality. What the eager adventurers wanted were definite directions as to route and distances, and also a native guide along the lower reaches of the river. At length both appeared to be forthcoming.

Ayatlan came aboard early one morning and asked for the captain. Ushered into the cabin, where a council was being held, he bowed himself down to the floor, then squatted on a mat and began his story without further prelude.

"My white brother, who has come from the great and good White Mother that rules the rising sun, is growing angry with Ayatlan because he has not told him that which his heart so desires to know."

"My Indian brother has received gifts and made promises; the promises have not been kept. I do right to show anger," replied Drake sharply. "The Spaniards would have flogged Ayatlan, and maybe have killed his sons, for such bad faith and crooked dealing."

The chief bowed. "Spaniards are beasts and the children of beasts. The Englishmen are sons of the Father of Heaven, and Ayatlan prays to them as to his gods. Why has my brother grown soft-hearted to his enemies and mine? The tongue of rumour tells how he has eaten up their armies at a mouthful. Is my brother grown old and toothless?"

John Drake flushed. He had had more than one reminder that the admiral, his brother, would have acted more energetically than he had done. But the younger man was by nature more cautious and diplomatic. He made answer: "My teeth are sound, Ayatlan, and the fire of manhood is still in my heart. Do not foes sometimes make peace for a while?"

"True; but when one makes peace with them that hate him, he is guilty of folly, for the enemy gathers strength whilst at rest, and waits to strike at an advantage."

"What has all this to do with the thing I seek?"

"Ayatlan has been working for his white brother since the hour when his ship came into the bay. He has thought night and day how he might help him to the desires of his heart."

"Well?"

"Last night a youth from another tribe came into the village with one of my messengers. He knows the great river, and hath journeyed many days on its bosom. He will guide the children of the great White Queen to the city of the 'Gilded One.'"

The quiet announcement thrilled the whole cabin. Here was the end of uncertainty. Drake grasped the chieftain by the hand. "What bargain doth Ayatlan wish to make?" he asked.

"I make no bargain," was the proud rejoinder. "Have I not given my white brothers joy? They will not forget. The guide waits in my boat."

"Let us speak with him."

The chief spoke to one of his attendants, and the guide was brought in. The adventurers looked at him with great curiosity; he was an object of the intensest interest to them. The youth's appearance was not prepossessing. To begin with, he was very dirty; the rags of a Spanish doublet hung about his body; legs and feet were bare, but a battered helmet, several sizes too large, covered his head and came down about his ears; a pair of cunning eyes peeped from under the bent rim of the headpiece, and quickly took in the details of the gathering. The hearts of the adventurers sunk at the first sight of the ludicrous and somewhat sinister personage. So this was the long-sought guide to whom they were to submit their lives and fortunes! Not one present liked the prospect.

There was a moment's silence. "Tell the zany to uncover," exclaimed the captain. Then he turned to Ayatlan. "Will my brother tell the young man what we want with him, and question him as to his fitness for the duties he offers to fulfil?"

"He will speak for himself. He has been a servant of the Spaniards, and knows their tongue better than I do."

Master Jeffreys took the young Indian in hand, and questioned him pretty closely. He answered glibly enough, with a "Yes" to almost every question. He had been many voyages up the Orinoco.

"How many?"

He held up the fingers of one hand. One voyage had lasted from the first night of the young moon until it was full.

What did he know of the city of gold?

Apparently he knew everything. The city lay on the headwaters of the river under the great mountains. A mighty lake lay at the foot of the city. The sands of the lake were composed of the yellow gold that the signers desired.

Had he met any one who had visited the city?

Yes; an Indian trader. He had once come into the camp of his Spanish masters when they were many days' journey up the great river. His masters had used him as interpreter. The houses of the city were of dazzling white stone, and the roofs of plates of gold. The people bathed in the lake on certain festival days, and afterwards sprinkled themselves so thickly with the precious yellow dust that they looked like golden images. Yes; they had temples, and the gods were of gold, and sacrifices were offered on golden altars. Sparkling stones, such as the signers loved, were found in the waters of the lake.

How far off was the city?

Oh! many moons' journey. No; the inhabitants were not warlike. They would welcome the white strangers from the land of the rising sun, and give them yellow dust and sparkling stones as much as their hearts desired. Yes; the dangers of the way were great, for many forests and swamps must be passed; roaring waterfalls blocked the passage of the river. The flow of the waters was fierce, the tides strong, and there was a thousand channels to bewilder the voyager. But he knew the way through the maze of waterways.

Could he guide the Englishmen?

He could. He hated the Spaniards, and would never act as guide to those who oppressed his own nation. But the Englishmen were brothers to the Indian.

What reward did he desire?

Clothes like those worn by his white brothers, and a sword to slay his enemies.

Needless to say, a bargain was struck forthwith. The guide clapped on his shapeless headpiece and strutted off, a happy man. He had told not a few lies; indeed, he had agreed with everything the adventurers seemed to desire, and spun them the yarns he had heard from the Spaniards, which tales he knew would gratify his new audience. And well-nigh a score of brave but credulous men shook hands with one another most gleefully, rubbed those same hands in joyous anticipation, and confidently looked forward to fabulous wealth and the glories of the city of marble and gold, the matchless capital of "El Dorado."



Chapter XXXIII.

WANDERING IN A MAZE.

"Land ho!"

The idlers on deck sprang to their feet, and the cabins were speedily emptied of their occupants. All eyes turned southwards. Nothing visible save the horizon, gray with the heat-haze of noon, and the gray-blue waters that heaved up to meet it. But the sailor in the crosstrees could see what was invisible to those on the deck. The gazers looked at him. He extended his forefinger over their heads.

"Land ho!" he cried again; "leagues of it, stretching east and west!"

The adventurers crowded into the bow of the boat, leaning over the bulwarks to larboard and starboard. Presently a sinuous line, darker gray than the rest of the horizon, could be discerned above the surface of the ocean. It lifted, cleared; the gray deepened to black; the low coast of the Orinoco delta was revealed. The crew raised a resounding cheer, and the gentlemen of the company waved their caps in the air. Yacamo, the guide, stood in the forepeak of the ship, the centre of an eager group. Yonder was land; for what point of it should they steer? Master Jeffreys was endeavouring to settle that question. The Indian was pouring out a torrent of coast Spanish, and gesticulating with every sentence. The Devonian explained the situation to his comrades.

"From what I can gather," he said, "the arms of the river embrace about fifty leagues of coastline similar to that which confronts us. In this stretch there are at least a hundred mouths, connected one with the other by thousands of cross channels. The whole delta is a bewildering maze of waterways. Some of these are deep enough to carry our ship well into the country; others are too shallow to float a ship's boat. Moreover, the guide says that he has had a free passage up a channel on one occasion that was impassable on another because of the shifting sandbanks. One of the main mouths is very deep, but the current is also of great strength. We take risks whatever we do."

"Is he sure that we are approaching the Orinoco coast?"

"Quite."

"That will do, then. We will skirt it until he recognizes a landmark."

The light breeze held steady, the tide was running in; so fair progress was made. The land now stood out quite distinct from the water. Dark masses of woodland could be discerned standing back on the fringe of the tidal mud, but no opening was visible in the low, dark line. Without going farther in, the ship's course was altered until it was parallel with the coast, and all the afternoon they held steadily along, looking for some landmark familiar to the Indian. But the coast was so monotonous in its regularity that distinguishing features were not plentiful. It was nearly sunset when, following an inward curve of the shore, they discovered that they were in the mouth of a wide estuary. The banks were miles apart, but, the tide being out, a turbid current was distinguishable, flowing in great volume seawards. The wind, for the time, had practically died down, and the current began to swing the ship round, and bear her back to the Atlantic. Soundings were taken, and about three fathoms of water discovered, where at least twenty times that depth had been anticipated. This was disappointing, for it was evident that they had turned into one of the shallow mouths, and navigation might come to an end a few miles up. Captain Drake dropped anchor well away from the shore and its pestilential night mists, and made all snug against the morning. He recognized that the navigation of the river was going to be no easy matter, and he decided to go warily.

The tide ran again about midnight, and on the early morning ebb the Golden Boar stood out to sea once more, and went in search of a more promising opening. They found one that Yacamo thought he knew, and, taking advantage of the afternoon tide, they ran up nearly twenty miles. The current was almost as strong as the tide, and they had to anchor against the ebb, or be swept out to sea quicker than they had come in. The next morning they went on again, and were fifty miles up the channel by nightfall. Away to right and left were masses of flat, swampy land, the intersecting waterways reddening and glistening in the setting sun.

The numerous channels and jutting stretches of land so broke the force of the tide that hardly any headway was made the next day, and a council was held to determine methods for further progress.

Captain Drake was of opinion that it was impossible to continue the passage of the river in the ship. Rigorous questioning and cross-questioning of Yacamo brought out further ugly reports of the shifting nature of the river-bed, and of the frequency of shallows. A stay of a couple of days in the anchorage was resolved upon, and during that time exploration by means of boats was to be pushed along vigorously.

But it was easier to decide this matter than to carry the decisions into practice. Three boats were sent out the next day just after sunrise. All pursued a more or less southerly course through the channels, and by noon all three crews had lost themselves in the maze. The waterways were all alike, muddy, tree-bordered, steamy, oppressively malodorous, and swarming with reptiles. Moreover, they laced and interlaced so frequently, crossing like the threads in a woven fabric, that any idea of direction was impossible. The giant trees shut in the channels from one another, and no boat's crew could see many yards ahead. In the afternoon, gun-fire from the ship gave the voyagers a cue to their whereabouts, and a guide back to safety. The scheme of exploration in order to find a safe passage for the ship had failed.

An anxious day followed. Would the mighty river never yield up its golden secret? Were the adventurers to be baffled and foiled after their thousands of leagues of journeying? The guide declared that the Spaniards had got hundreds of miles farther up the river, but by means of galleys of forty to sixty oars apiece. The Golden Boar had no such craft aboard. Three good ships' boats she had, the largest capable of holding about a score of men with arms and provisions, the others with capacity for about half that number. The largest boat was fitted with a mast, and a gun might be mounted in the bow.

No man was in the mind to turn back, and progress by boat was resolved upon. What should be done with the ship? She must not be wholly abandoned, for she was wanted for the voyage home. Some counselled that she should be taken back to Trinidad and harboured there for three months, coming back to the river again at the end of that period. Others were for hiding her, as Oxenham had hidden his ship; but Nick and Ned Johnson were loud against any such proceeding. A plan suggested by Trelawny was to the effect that half the company should go buccaneering amongst the islands in the Golden Boar, whilst the other half should try for "El Dorado's" land, the spoils of each expedition to be put into the common fund, and then shared according to the terms of the cruise. A few reckless spirits agreed to this, but Captain Drake would make no such division of his forces. To do so, he argued, would be to weaken both parties to the verge of powerlessnesa.

Matters were at a deadlock. Then Dan Pengelly went hunting, and caught a native canoe and two natives. He brought them to the ship. Yacamo could make himself understood. He persuaded the Indians that his masters were not Spaniards, but tender-hearted white men, who loved the brown man like a brother. Generosity in the matter of presents helped the faith of the two men. They declared their willingness to help the white strangers. Their own village was near at hand, hidden in the wooded recesses of an island, and they had intercourse with other villages along the delta, and could guide the adventurers through the network of channels to the main stream.

But the problem what to do with the ship remained unsolved. The two natives declared that it was impossible to get her into the main river; and even if that could be done, her voyage up-stream would be short, as waterfalls blocked the passage.

Captain Drake and a small retinue proceeded to the Indian village, and talked with the chief. He proved friendly enough, and quite willing to help, when he found that the newcomers were foes to his oppressors, the Spaniards. He paid a return visit to the ship, and, learning the difficulty concerning her, offered to hide her in a deep pool on the eastern side of his own island. She could there be effectively screened. A survey of the spot and the channels leading to it showed that the plan was feasible; and, with ship's boats and native canoes, the Golden Boar was towed to her anchorage, and preparations for the boat journey were at once begun. The vessel was dismasted, her guns buried, and the ammunition safely stowed in an empty hut. Masts and sails were fitted to the two smaller boats, and the chief furnished a large canoe and rowers for the carriage of stores. Two other canoes of stronger make were constructed, and at the end of twelve days Captain Drake had a flotilla of five boats under his command. Sixty men were to form the expeditionary force; one gentleman adventurer, one ship's officer, two soldiers, and two seamen—all chosen by lot—being left behind in the native village in charge of ship and stores.



Chapter XXXIV.

FLOOD AND FEVER.

The Indians were as good as their word. Headed by the chief's canoe, the adventurers passed in steady procession through more than a hundred miles of delta waterways. Progress was slow, for, though the current in the cross channels was not strong, the wind was hardly felt; the heat was stifling, and rest during the midday hours absolutely necessary. Then there were villages to be visited, presents to be made to the chieftains, and feasts to be eaten in return. Haste was impossible, though very desirable. The rains were beginning, the river would soon be in flood, and pestilence would stalk through the swampy regions like a destroying angel.

At last the apex of the delta was reached, and the broad river—stretching miles from bank to bank—lay before the navigators. The milk-white current, laden with chalky washings from the land, swept by in a mighty flood. On its bosom floated trees and detached masses of soil, going northwards to build up the growing delta. But for the wind and the guidance of the natives the adventurers would have made no headway against the mighty volume of the waters. Happily the North-East Trades from the Atlantic, unimpeded by mountain or hill, blew with steady and strong persistence across the flat delta and along the level plains through which the river made its way. Sandbanks in the bed diverted the current here and there, making quiet, lake-like pools under the banks. The Indians knew of these, and skilfully made use of them. Sails were spread to the breeze, and the flotilla went steadily on its way.

One week went by, and then another. The weather grew worse and worse. Terrific storms swept across the plains, lashing the Orinoco into fury, tearing down the mighty trees on its banks, and deluging the intrepid voyagers. The banks of the stream were almost lost; hundreds of square miles of forest-clad plain were under water, the tree-tops alone showing the navigators the true course of the river. The flood flowing sea-wards became thicker, deeper, and mightier than ever. The humid heat of the stormy summer became well-nigh unbearable. Men sickened, and in a few cases died. Camping ground at night was almost unobtainable, and thick, poisonous mists enwreathed the boats during the hours of darkness, fevering the men's blood, cramping and stiffening their limbs. It became imperative to call a halt for a while; the enfeebled rowers made scant progress against the strengthening current, and the success achieved was not worth the effort that was made. A pile-supported village was sighted, and the Indian guides turned their boat thither, the others following.

The village stood on some rising ground on the western bank of the stream, and in the dry season must have been at least half a mile from the margin of the waters. Now the floods rolled between the piles, submerging at least ten feet of them. Native canoes were tethered to the supports, and the house platforms were soon covered with knots of brown-skinned fellows full of anxiety and apprehension concerning the oncoming fleet. They knew the ship's boats for those used by the white men who came trading or raiding along the river, and wondered to find them attempting a voyage at such a time. The friendly Indians went forward and explained who the white men were, and what they wanted, and the villagers proved kind and confiding, as indeed had all the natives dwelling along the river. They gave up room in their huts to the fevered men, sleeping out on the platforms themselves, and for a few days the expedition rested and recuperated.

The sun had set, the moon was above the tree-tops, steadily making for its zenith. A group of three—Johnnie Morgan, Timothy Jeffreys, and Dan Pengelly—sat on the platform of one of the huts, their legs dangling over the edge within a couple of feet of the water. The day had been fiercely hot, and the water around had steamed like a smoking cauldron. With the moon had come a brisk breeze, that swept the stagnant, mouldy vapours away, and left a clear landscape and cool air. Dan was stuffing tobacco into a pipe of bamboo, and urging the two gentlemen to follow his example, the smoke of the weed being, he declared, an antidote against the malarial poisons breathed out by the foul mud and rotting vegetation that surrounded them. The old sailor had enjoyed marvellously good health throughout the river voyage, and, forgetting his previous travels, and the natural toughness of his constitution, put his happy condition down to his daily pipes of the fragrant Indian weed. But his two companions were too languid for indulgence in smoking. Their heads were giddy, their hearts throbbing, and their stomachs at war with all solid food. The tropical marsh fever had them in its grip, and the grasp was tightening every moment. The trees swayed dismally in the breeze, and the birds chattered querulously at being disturbed. The waters "lap, lapped" monotonously against the piles, and horny-backed alligators nosed amongst them, seeking for scraps and offal or any stray eatables that came their way. Moths and fireflies flitted about in such numbers that the air seemed alive with them. All around was a vast, shallow, fresh-water sea—rolling, heaving, sucking, lapping, shimmering under the tropical moon. A night full of majesty, beauty, mystery, and death.

Dan curled himself comfortably against a pillar, closed his eyes, and smoked with keen enjoyment. Morgan and Jeffreys gazed for a while with aching eyes at the weird scene around; then the heavy lids dropped, and they fell a-dreaming.

Johnnie was back in the cool forest by Severn side; the oaks and the beeches swayed above him, and the bracken rustled as a rabbit scuttled through. The nightingale was singing his love song to his mate and the moon, and the dull, far-off roar of the rushing tide sounded a low accompaniment to the song. Gone were the white, warm, mud-laden waters, the floating trunks, the screaming parrots, the croaking frogs, the howling beasts; the glare of the sun no longer hurt his eyes, and its fierce heat no longer sent his brain throbbing and burning. The air was cool, the bracken sweet, and the bird trilled out its passionate music. Why should he sit uncomfortably propped against a tree? He would lie down, and let the fresh, green fronds curl above him. He sighed, his limbs relaxed, he swayed—he fell with a heavy splash into the warm, lapping waters!

A nosing alligator swished his tail against a pile and darted off in sudden alarm; but he came round again speedily, just as the half-fainting man roused sufficiently to be conscious that he was in the water. Jeffreys was asleep, but Dan's sailor senses were alert in an instant. His eyes opened, he glanced around, missed Morgan, and peered over into the flood. The fallen man cried out, and the huge reptile that had espied him moved off again. Dan saw both, shouted in alarm, and hurled a handy log at the prowling horror; then he swung himself, monkey fashion, down a stout pile, seized Morgan by the hair, and brought him so that he got a grip of the platform. A minute later Johnnie swung himself into safety, and only just in time, for more than one scaly reptile had scented the feast, and was hurrying through the moonlit waters, eager and voracious. This unlucky sousing in the flood settled the grip of the fever on Morgan. When next he sunned himself on the platform the waters had subsided, the mud was baked and cracking, and the major portion of the expedition leagues away southwards.



Chapter XXXV.

A FOE.

Johnnie Morgan was not the only sick man left behind in the Indian village. Master Jeffreys had had the strong hand of the fever upon him; and the son of the parson of Newnham, like his neighbour and friend the Blakeney yeoman, found the air of the Orinoco less invigorating than the air of the Severn. With the three sick men had been left three sound men as guard and escort. Two of these, the Johnsons, had elected to remain with their friend Master Timothy, and a soldier had been chosen to keep them company. Johnnie was the last of the three invalids to recover; indeed, the others had made plans for their journey in the wake of the main expedition long before he was fit to take his place in the boat.

It was fortunate for the six left behind that all, save one, were experienced navigators, and that two of these had had the opportunity of sailing boats on the Severn, the most treacherous of all English tidal rivers. The boat built after the fashion of a native canoe was left for them; they rigged a mast and small sail, fixed a rudder, and, with a native of the village as guide, set off a little after sunrise one morning.

For many days the voyage was uneventful enough. Captain Drake had gone before, and the natives were everywhere eager to welcome the Englishmen and render them every assistance. They were warned of dangers in the river, which still ran strongly, and was in places a couple of miles in width. Guides were readily provided, and everything done to hasten them on their way. Their light boat went splendidly; they were spared many of the ceremonious visitations that had fallen upon their captain, and often, during the day, made two miles of progress to one made by him over the same stretch of river. Each sunset found them nearer and nearer to the main body, and they were quick to notice that the latter were going slower and slower every day.

The country was no longer monotonously flat, as it had been whilst the river swept along through the llanos. Hills now rose up to right and left; great mountains loomed up dimly against the skyline; and the low, muddy banks gave way to towering limestone cliffs, their natural whiteness hidden by the luxuriant, clinging vegetation. Shallows in the river were no longer sandy and sluggish, but rapids were the dangers to navigation. The air was cooler and fresher, the vegetation was that of drier soil and drier atmosphere, insect life was less noxious, and the labours of the way grew more endurable.

But as the perils from nature decreased, those to be apprehended from man increased. The adventurers had long passed the most southerly point of Spanish influence. Hitherto they had found docile Indians, who had learned to fear the white man and his strange weapons, and to hate one section of the white race—namely, the Spanish. The Englishmen were white, and possessed the moral power of the race over ruder peoples; they also came as foes and rivals to those who ill-treated the long-suffering native; hence they had been everywhere treated with awe, not unmixed with real affection. As far as the inhabitants of the land were concerned, their voyage had been a sort of triumphal procession.

But inhabitants of hilly or mountainous land are always hardier and less docile than their brethren of the fat plains. The Indians on the hilly fringes of the Orinoco basin were no exception to this rule. They had heard of the white man; refugees from the lower lands had spread reports of his rapacity and cruelty, and of the scorn with which he treated the poor brown man. They were resolved that he should not lay hands on them or their treasures without a struggle. And so it came to pass that one day the messengers of Captain Drake returned to him with reports of a very rough reception from a native dignitary.

Although annoyed by this rebuff, the adventurers attached but little importance to it. Perhaps the native messenger had been clumsy over his diplomatic dealings; maybe the hill chieftain had misunderstood him: a second mission should be sent with suitable presents. Accordingly, two of the gentlemen of the company, attended by half a dozen soldiers and as many natives, left the camp on the river-bank and threaded the steeply-pitched woods to the native village. An Indian scout was thrown out in front, on the flanks, and in the rear, and the white men kept solidly together in the centre.

They met with no opposition by the way, and in due time came out of the trees and found themselves on a plateau about a mile square. On the farther edge of this stood a cluster of stone-built huts, evidently surrounded by a rude but effective wall. Before them stretched fields of Indian corn, tall and green after the heavy rains. The evidences of native civilization were greater than any the adventurers had hitherto met. They halted for a brief consultation, then went forward again, resolved to do their errand discreetly and warily. Not one inhabitant was in sight, but, as the wall was neared, slim, brown figures were espied slipping through the waving grain towards the gate.

A close view of the wall showed that the village was a fortress as well as a place of habitation. The stones were rough from the hillside, and quite untrimmed, but patience in selection and arrangement had produced a compact rampart that could not easily be shattered or stormed. The gate was of wood, and towered some feet above the top of the wall. It was shut.

Sir John Trelawny was in command of the embassy, and he directed one of the soldiers to go forward and sound a summons on his bugle. The man did so. The musical notes rang back in double echoes from the hills, and brought a hundred dark heads above the ramparts. Again the soldier sent the sweet echoes flying. The strange notes had their effect on the villagers, for a man came from the gate to the strangers and asked their business. The Indian interpreter, who had been carefully schooled on his way up, and who, moreover, was proud of the trust reposed in him by the formidable white men, gave a dignified and courteous answer. The white men were, he explained, creatures of another world, a world that lay beneath the rising sun; the sun was their father, and his glory was in his children's faces. They held the thunder and lightning in the hollow of their hands, and could slay men almost at a nod. Yet by nature they were kindly and generous, wishing harm to none. They were passing down the river to a city of gold of which they had heard; during the weeks of their voyage they had not laid an unkindly hand on any man, nor appropriated any man's goods. His own people, and all the tribes along the river, loved and reverenced their white brothers, and would die for them.

The villager listened gravely enough, then swung round towards the gate, saying he would carry the message to his chief faithfully and without alteration. At the end of about half an hour he reappeared. His chief would not see the white men, nor provide them with anything. He had heard that the children of the sun were cruel and rapacious, murdering and burning without mercy if they thought that thereby they might get any of the yellow metal their souls lusted after so strongly.

The interpreter replied that this was true of one section of white men, but his brothers were the enemies of those monsters, warring with them whenever they met them. His brothers were the lordly eagles, and were called "English;" the others were the voracious birds that stalked in the mud, feeding on garbage; the chief had heard of these last, the "Spaniards."'

The villager went away again, but returned quickly with his message unaltered; the chief would not trust the strangers. It was useless to ask him for guides to any city of gold, or to the shores of any lake such as the white men desired. He had never heard of these places, and did not believe they existed. The whole story was a trick to get the country out of the hands of its inhabitants. The trick had worked in the plains where the men had the hearts and brains of sick women; it would not succeed with the "Brown Eagles" of the hills. Let the "White Eagles" from the sun try their strength and wit against them if they so desired.

This answer was uncompromising enough, and with it the messengers went back again to the river. They had looked only into the face of one man of a tribe of a thousand hillmen.

There was a long council round the camp fire that night, and for the first time for some weeks sentinels were set, and keen watch and ward kept until daybreak. A further consultation was held in the morning, after each man had slept upon the suggestions of the previous evening. It was not easy to decide upon a course of conduct. Hitherto the adventurers had pursued their way in peace, and they were anxious to avoid hostilities with the natives. They saw that nothing could be gained by fighting the Indians. They were but a small company in a strange land, and a thousand miles and more from the sea; their object was gold, not conquest. Should they go on their way, leaving the unfriendly chief in the security of his fastness? By so doing would they be leaving an enemy in their rear? On the other hand, should they bring him to his knees, and teach him to respect and fear the name of England? How would their line of conduct operate on the minds of the natives? The point was a delicate one. Some were for pushing ahead, reaching their goal, and dealing with the hill village on their return; others were hot to chastise the stubborn Indian at once, and break the back of native opposition at a blow. Such was the Spanish method, and no man could say that the Dons had not gotten wealth enough.

The latter council prevailed, and it was decided to attack the native stronghold that very night under cover of the darkness. The solitary cannon was taken out of the largest boat and fitted with slings, so that the Indian allies might carry it. Arquebuses were diligently cleaned, and all arms and armour attended to.

The forenoon passed busily enough. During the hot hours the men slept beneath the trees. An hour before sunset supper was served out, and whilst the men were eating it, a boat shot round the bend, and a loud "Halloo!" announced the arrival of Morgan and his companions. This unexpected addition to the fighting strength was heartily welcomed.



Chapter XXXVI.

THE ATTACK ON THE VILLAGE.

Forty Englishmen, with Indian carriers and scouts, stole out from the river-side camp under the clear light of the tropical stars. The villagers on the hills slept in a false security. Spies had hung about the river all day; but the preparations had no meaning for them, except that they probably signalized an early departure. They had witnessed the arrival of the other boat, and had sped to their chieftain with the news. But the idea of a night attack on their stronghold never occurred to them. This newest type of white man, they had been told and really believed, fought with their own kind only. The Indians shut and barred their great gate, curled themselves up on couch of skins or reed matting, and fell into the deep sleep of the tired savage.

The friendly scouts had so learned every turn and obstacle in the upward path from the river that they could have walked it in the blackest darkness, and the metallic light from the clear heavens was more than sufficient for the keen-eyed mariners. One torch was carried for the firing of the big gun and for the lighting of the matches of the arquebusiers, but its yellow glare was shrouded in a soldier's helmet.

The strip of forest was passed, and the men filed out on the plateau. A breeze from the neighbouring heights stirred the green patches of corn. A scout came back, and whispered that the way was clear. The band moved forward.

The dull, gray mass of the village loomed dimly ahead. No light was visible, but a thin column of smoke from the communal fire rose above the walls and bent away before the wind.

The adventurers were within gunshot of the gate. The big gun was silently fitted to its carriage, loaded and shotted; and the native allies ran back into the corn and hid themselves, quaking with terror.

There was a flash of red flame, a loud roar that came back in echoing thunder from the hills, the crash of the iron ball against the gate. The villagers started from sleep, and looked around in dismay. Another flash, another roar, another crash, a pealing of strange thunder. Then a shout in a strange tongue: "For England! Mother England!" The children of the sun, the wielders of the thunder and lightning, were through the broken gate.

Then arose a mad stampede of terror. The arquebusiers were within the rampart, and death-fire and nauseous smoke spurted from a dozen different places. With squeals and shrieks, as from a mob of terrified brutes, men, women, and children dashed for the walls and the farther outlets in mad flight for the hills.

"Make for the chief's house. Kill no man unless he opposes you," was the order; and a shouting band soon surrounded the great house in the centre of the village. Some fired the thatched roofs, and a red glare shot up to the blue sky. The cries and screams of the scurrying tribe grew fainter and fainter. But the sturdy headman was not with them. Spear in hand, and alone, he faced his terrible foes, eyes and teeth fiercely gleaming—a bronze Hector. He lunged at the foremost man, and Master Jeffreys knocked him down with the flat of his sword. Instantly Morgan and three or four others threw themselves upon him. He writhed and twisted like a limbed snake, and bit and tore with teeth and hands. But the odds were hopelessly against him; a rope in a sailor's practised hands wound about his body, and he lay, a panting prisoner, across his own threshold. A few others of the villagers were seized, the rest of the roofs were fired, and the adventurers marched back to the river. No spoil was taken.



The next morning the rank and file of the prisoners were set at liberty. A present was given to each one, and it was impressed upon them that the white strangers bore them no ill-will, and would not again molest the village if its inhabitants conducted themselves with due deference and friendliness. They had punished them for their churlishness and disrespect, and had no thought of doing them further mischief if they profited by the lesson given them. The men departed, astonished at the clemency shown them.

During the day the major portion of the villagers came back from the mountains and woods, and set stolidly to work repairing their homes. One of the released prisoners ventured to come down to the white men and beg permission to cut rushes for the rethatching of his dwelling. He was quickly told that the river and its rushes were as free to him as ever they had been; and some of the adventurers cut rushes themselves, and told the fellow to let the people know that a supply awaited them.

These wise measures went far to conciliate the natives. They had learned that they must not oppose the strangers, but they also were fairly assured that the white men were not the robbers and destroyers that rumour had represented them to be. Some of them came freely enough into the camp, bartering produce for gaudy trinkets; but, to the intense disappointment of the company, none seemed to know anything about the "Gilded One" or the marvellous city in which he dwelt.

The expedition moved on—rapids, rocks, gorges, and waterfalls impeding the way. The heat was intense; and when at times long marches were necessary, in order to avoid obstacles in the river, the labour of tugging the boats was alike heartbreaking and limb-breaking. More than once the wisdom of leaving the river and marching overland was discussed. But the river was at least a sure path, according to all reports. It led to Lake Parime and its golden sands and wondrous city. The men grew feverish and unbalanced with anxiety and disappointed hopes. Night after night they were to be found in groups, listening to Yacamo or the Indians from the delta as they retold for the thousandth time the story of "El Dorado;" others would sit beside Master Jeffreys whilst he read and translated Dan's papers; and any words that fell from the Johnsons, and others who had sailed the Spanish Main before, and heard the Spanish stories of fabulous Indian treasures, were stored up as precious oracles.

And yet the mysterious region never seemed to come nearer; rather it receded as the adventurers advanced, a yellow will-o'-the-wisp that had led them through tangled forest and pestilential swamp only to mock them in the end. The natives grew fiercer and more threatening; the guides began to murmur at the length of the way—their river homes seemed so far behind them. Savage faces peered out from bush and rock upon the company of wearied, ragged, dispirited men. One soldier went mad, raved of gold and jewels, and jumped into a whirlpool to seek both. Two others—one a Cornish squire who had sold his little all to join the expedition—were stricken by the sun, and dropped dead as they were pulling at the boat ropes. A jaguar pounced upon another man as he stooped to get water from a stream. An Indian arrow found the heart of another. The sun, fatigue, fevers, bruises, and the endless racking of limbs and brains, reduced the spirits and strength of the men. They became gaunt, hollow-eyed, tattered, unshorn, uncombed, unkempt, yet they toiled on, silent—save when they cursed and railed at fate—dogged, fiercely purposeful, resolved to die rather than turn back. Song and jest were rarely heard in any boat; haggard fellows tugged at the oars, or lay dreamily watching the sail as it filled with the welcome breeze. Their patience being sapped by disappointment and privation, they were no longer the kindly "white brother" to the Indians; they estranged their friends and made foes at every halting-place.

One man saw this. Since the attack on the hill village the chief of that place had been dragged along with the expedition by way of punishment. Sullenly he had tugged at his oar, carried his load, or pulled at his rope; he neither forgot anything nor forgave anything. He rarely spoke to the Indians from the delta and the plain, and when he did his words were full of contempt. One night, when the adventurers were lodged on the land in a cleft of the mountains, he disappeared. The natives who slept on either side of him as guard were both stabbed to the heart. The sight still further dulled the spirits of all.



Chapter XXXVII.

COUNCIL FIRES IN TWO PLACES.

The rising sun flashed spears of light on a rocky spur that stretched out from the foot of the mighty Andes. A tall, straight figure stood silhouetted against a background of sun-bathed cliff. Higher above him the great masses of land rolled back, league after league, and stretched upwards foot after foot to the eternal snows and the eternal heavens. Below him a belt of dark forest swept round the foothills of the giant range, and through a gap in the mass of trees a noisy, turbid stream went tumbling down to the sweltering plains and a feeder of the Orinoco.

The man stood motionless as his rocky pedestal, and intently watching something beyond the line of trees. Presently he turned sharply about, came down from the crag, pushed his way through the trees, and stood in a little pool-filled hollow. Almost immediately he was joined by about twoscore men, all armed with spear and bow and arrow, and, like himself, brown-skinned and stalwart. The newcomers bowed themselves to the ground and murmured some words of homage and adulation. The standing savage drew in a deep breath, expanding his broad chest, and his eyes flashed with pride and power.

"Arise, my sons," he said; "the gods that make men and unmake them shall reward you. Ye have been faithful to him whom the gods have set over you. To the brave shall be the spoils; my sons shall lade themselves with all their hearts may desire. Now tell me what you have done."

A tall warrior stood forth. "We have followed our father since the white strangers seized him. We have watched him and them, and waited for this happy moment."

"Aught else?"

"We have spoken with the peoples who dwell in the woods and the hills, and turned their minds against the men from the land of the sun-rising. They will fight them if any man can discover a charm that will protect them from the thunder and lightning that springs from the strangers' hands."

The chieftain laughed. "I will find them a charm," he cried. "I have walked all night," he added suddenly; "I will sleep. Watch ye."

The chieftain slept. One man went to the cliff as sentinel; the rest squatted around the pool, looked to their weapons, and talked in whispers. The sun climbed upwards, the shadows shortened, the water of the pool grew warm, the sentinel ensconced himself in a shaded cleft of the rock that overlooked the valley, and maintained the unwinking watch of the stoic savage.

The chieftain awoke, a giant refreshed. A warrior brought him water in a gourd; another handed him some fruits from a wallet. A call blown on a hollow reed brought the watcher down from his eyrie. Led by the tall warrior who had addressed his chief, the band went off deeper and higher into the hills. They toiled along through a defile all the afternoon, and when the sun was dipping behind the western peaks came into a broad, cup-like valley, that was dotted with the rude stone huts of a mountain tribe. The tall warrior went forward alone, but presently came back and piloted the band through the straggling groups of huts to the spot where the tribal fire was licking up a fresh supply of fuel. A group of warriors seated by the fire gave the newcomers a guttural greeting, and motioned them to seats on the other side of the blazing heap. Silence was maintained until roasted meat, corn cakes, and fermented liquor were handed round to both parties; then all gathered on the windward side, and the palaver commenced.

The visiting chief held forth at great length. He gave a reasonably good summary of the history of the white man along the Orinoco valley from the first advent of the Spaniards. He spoke of their cruelties, their lust for the yellow dust, and their belief in a golden city on the shores of a lake that fed the head waters of the river. He described the attack on his village, and his own subsequent captivity and semi-slavery. He belittled the strength of his captors, and was inclined to scoff at their thunder-and-lightning tubes. He confessed that the flame and roar of these formidable weapons were terrifying at first; but he had witnessed their action at close quarters, and familiarity had bred a sort of contempt. The lightning would not always leap forth when wanted, nor did the thunder always slay. He was inclined to put as much faith in a well-directed arrow. The latter might be discharged unseen; not so the fire-weapons of the white strangers. The fire-god must be brought to their nostrils, and breathe into them before the fire within would answer; and if a man lay on the ground when he saw the fire he was safe from death. Finally, he urged with savage passion that the intruders should be killed or expelled from the land. He spoke of them as wearied and dispirited, sick with fatigue and the sun-fever, and boldly asserted that they were an easy prey. The tall warrior arose after his chief, emphasizing all that his lord had said.

The chiefs of the tribe did not reply at once, but held a brief consultation apart. They were not inclined to accept the white men at their visitor's valuation, nor were they prepared to take up arms against such wonderful beings without very serious cause. From the chief's own showing they had treated him in a brotherly spirit at first. Other native tribes had, apparently, fraternized with the strangers, and had got considerable advantage thereby. As regards the city of gold, the chiefs had never heard of the place themselves, although they had occasional dealings with peoples who dwelt near the head waters of the great river. But the white strangers were wise, and knew things that the gods had not told to other men. Maybe the city really existed. If the white men wanted to get there, why should any man hinder them? And it was all very well for their visitor to pretend that he had no fear of the thunder weapons. Why had all his people fled at the sound of them?

The chieftain tried to explain, and again urged his points with a number of fresh arguments. But the council was against him; they refused to run their heads into unknown and fearful dangers by opposing a wonderful race that showed no disposition to interfere with them. And so the council ended.

From the cliff that guarded the outlet from the small valley into the gorge a keen-eyed native, gazing intently eastwards towards the greater valley, might have made out a point of yellow light about three leagues away in a bee-line. The light was on the bank of the affluent of the Orinoco, and came from the camp fire of the adventurers. There also a council was being held, and the question for decision was the momentous one whether the quest for the golden city should be abandoned as hopeless. According to the Spanish papers and general rumour the expedition should now be in touch with superior, light-coloured races, and a civilization rivalling that of the ancient empires of Assyria or Babylon for wealth and luxury. The way to Manoa should be as plain and well-known as the way to Rome or Venice. Yet all around were frowning mountains and dense forests, the homes of fierce birds and beasts, and the haunts of savage, warlike tribes. A thousand miles nearer the ocean the natives talked glibly and circumstantially enough about the "Gilded One" and his wonderful city. Here, where the gates of his kingdom should be, no man had heard either of king or country. Months of hardship and privation, the facing of death a hundred times in almost as many forms, had brought the intrepid band to—nothing!

On this particular occasion every man was admitted to the council, and the words of the common soldier and sailor were listened to as attentively as the words of any of the gentlemen. An onlooker would have been sorely puzzled to decide from outward appearance which of the battered, travel-worn band was its leader. The fire lighted up a ring of gaunt, brown, bearded faces, and the pairs of eyes that centred on each speaker's face in turn had little of hope or animation in them. The conference began after the evening meal, and extended far into the night. All seemed to realize the hopelessness of pursuing the quest any farther, yet none cared to face the ordeal of turning the boats seaward again. They compromised the matter. A last attempt should be made to acquire guides and information. If the attempt failed, the search would be abandoned.



Chapter XXXVIII.

THE WAY BACK.

Yacamo, out searching for signs of human occupation, came upon the entrance to the upland valley, and espied the Indian town. He went back to the camp and reported. A deputation was sent to wait upon the chief; a body of men met them in the pass, and refused to allow them to proceed a step farther. Then some of the adventurers themselves climbed through the gorge, and were met with a shower of arrows that wounded three of them. Finally, Captain Drake himself, under the guidance of Yacamo, worked his way into the valley, and reconnoitred. He calculated the town at a strength of about fifteen hundred to two thousand warriors. It was not fortified; but no force could get up the gorge if reasonable opposition were offered. His own band could be ambushed in a score of places. He decided it was impossible to attack the place with any chance of success.

Scouting parties were sent farther along the river. In every case they were assailed. The Englishmen themselves were shot at again and again if they ventured out hunting, and at night arrows dropped at intervals into the camp. The adventurers were in a hornets' nest, and the hornets were always stinging. These attacks, which argued the existence of a host of enemies, were all the work of the escaped chieftain and his twoscore of followers. Divided into about half a dozen bands, hiding themselves with perfect native cunning, they were as effective as ten times the number of less active, less revengeful foes might be; and they grew bolder every hour.

Despairing of success—wearied, wounded, harassed, sick—the adventurers resolved to turn back. Since they had entered the hilly country, they had lost seven men; and as the whole country seemed rising to oppose them, it was madness to attempt to force a passage along the rocky, unknown way. With heavy hearts they paddled into the main stream, got into the current, and drifted northwards towards the ocean.

For days there was hardly any attempt at rowing. The strong rush of the chalky waters swept the boats along. Awnings were erected to shut off the terrific heat of the equatorial sun, and the men lay and dozed and rested, their native allies directing the course of the voyage. No foes appeared, days and nights were quiet and uneventful, and the strength and spirits of all began to revive. They had failed in their quest. What of that? The summer was not yet gone. There were Spanish galleons to be attacked. The Johnsons could show where Oxenham had hidden his treasure; and if they had not found Lake Parime and its city of gold, they had explored much new and wondrously fertile country. The passion for exploration and the gaining of knowledge of new lands was almost as strong in the hearts of the bold fellows as was the thirst for treasure. Third day down the river Dan sang his song again; 'twas,—

"Ho! for the Spanish Main, And ha! for the Spanish gold!"

King Philip's ships were the true and sure gold-mines. All eyes looked and all hearts yearned for the sea. Their thoughts flew to their bonny little ship. Was she safe? How that question agitated every one, and what intense speculation there was as to the way the question would be answered!

If the way back was easier than the journey forward, it was not less dangerous. The heat had increased, insect life had multiplied a myriad-fold, and the pestilential vapours from the swampy lowlands were thicker and deadlier than before; and the men were not fresh from the invigorating sea, but were spent and worn with a thousand hardships. They drooped, sickened, raved in delirium, and in some cases died. Even the cheery Dan succumbed to the poison of the noisome night mists, and whilst the fever was on him his songs and jests were sorely missed. Morgan and some of the others began to sing songs of home, but these the captain stopped because of the depression they induced in some of the men.

At length, after more than a fortnight of drifting with the current, the first parting of the ways at the beginning of the delta was reached. To the Indians this was the threshold of home; to the Englishmen it was but a poor halting-place, from which they must set out to face fresh perils, and maybe meet newer disappointments. The bewildering maze of channels was once more threaded, this time with the varying strengths of the current to indicate the better routes. The dense, overhanging vegetation sheltered the voyagers by day and stifled them by night. Rests at friendly villages were eagerly welcomed, and no bad news awaited the weary band. A few Spanish boats had been seen in some of the channels, but they had asked no questions concerning the Englishmen, and the natives had given no information, fearing that their masters—for so the Dons accounted themselves—would punish them for having assisted their enemies.

It was in the heat of sultry afternoon, the air stirless, the water in the channel warm and rank-smelling. The boats were drifting lazily under the banks, the native steersmen half sleeping at their posts, the white men stretched out, listless, sun-wearied, inert. A canoe shot out across the path of the boats, disappeared along another waterway, stopped, and a Spaniard got out and plunged into the trees on the low island. He watched the flotilla go by. He noticed the attitude of the men.

"St. James!" he cried, "I could do it with a score of resolute soldiers! What a chance! And I must miss it!"

The Englishmen drifted on; the Spaniard followed at a safe distance. He wanted a solution to an important question: Where was the English ship? He had hunted for it, and so had others—for the Golden Boar had been tracked from Trinidad into the delta—but no man had sighted her, and knew not how far she had gone up-stream. It was not suspected that she had remained so near the sea as proved to be the case. The native chief had guarded his secret well.

That night, about an hour after sunset, and with the light of the growing moon to guide them, the adventurers tied up their boats in the pool where the Golden Boar still lay. What a thrill went through each heart as the outline of their ocean home appeared dimly through the veil of white mist! Tears stood in their eyes, and more than one bold fellow had hard work to choke back a sob. The men left behind came running forth to meet them, all alive, all well. Rough, bearded lips pressed against thin, tanned cheeks in brotherly kisses, and the natives thronged round, full of affectionate and admiring welcome. The brave "white brothers" were back, and their simple hearts rejoiced.

The villagers began instant preparations for a great feast. Captain Drake marshalled his men, and went aboard his ship. Standing bareheaded on his deck, the flag of England unfurled above him, he returned thanks to Almighty God for a great deliverance from many perils; and the company responded with a sonorous and devout "Amen!" There was no word of repining, no lamentation over the failure that had attended their quest. The dead were remembered in a few moments of bowed and silent reverence, and, at the command of his captain, Morgan sang the "De Profundis." "Out of the deep," indeed, had they called, and they thanked God in that He heard them.

Then they went to the place of feasting, and ate as hungry voyagers should eat. After that they slept the deep sleep of wearied men who, after many toils and vicissitudes, had reached a haven where they could rest.

Days of bustle followed. The ship was cleaned of the vegetable growths that clung to her sides; masts were refixed, fittings tested and replaced, and ample stores put aboard. The salt breeze had got again into the men's nostrils, and their hearts cried out for the open sea. Affectionate farewell was taken of their kindly hosts; a promise to come back again was given. Then a flotilla of canoes towed the stout ship into the main channel!



Chapter XXXIX.

JOHN OXENHAM'S CREEK.

More than two months after she had quitted the harbour of San Joseph, the Golden Boar dropped anchor in its waters again. She was not expected, and some folks were hoping that she had gone to the bottom of the Atlantic, or was lying rotting in some pestilential mouth of the Orinoco. Yacamo was put ashore, and a brief visit paid to the governor and the chief Ayatlan. The latter was pleased enough to see the Englishmen, and he warned them that mischief was brewing.

"There has been much coming and going of Spaniards and Spanish ships," he said; "and one man has offered great rewards to any that could tell him where you were hidden."

The visit to the governor nearly led to a quarrel. That dignitary was by no means so deferential as on the previous visit; indeed, he was barely civil. Many things had happened during the previous weeks. A ship had arrived from Spain, and she carried an important passenger—to wit, Brother Basil. He was weeks behind the Golden Boar, but he soon made up for lost time. In the first place he was able to prove that Captain John Drake of the Golden Boar was not the redoubtable Captain Francis Drake so dreaded all along the shores of the Spanish Main. This largely accounted for the altered demeanour of the governor. Rightly guessing that the English ship would put into the harbour if she ever returned from the Orinoco, Basil had at first tried to prepare a warm reception for her. He failed in this, for soldiers were not easy to obtain, the governor was not anxious for a fight, and the very name "Drake" still inspired terror whether it was prefixed by Francis or John. As a second resource he had sent boats into the delta in the hope of locating the ship or her company, and stirring up the natives against the Englishmen. His messengers searched the wrong mouths and channels, and it was only at the last that one of them happed upon the foe; and he was still on the mainland and had sent no tidings.

But the Jesuit, being cognizant of all the plans of the adventurers, and knowing that the Johnsons would lead the way to the scene of Oxenham's defeat and death, prepared yet a third scheme, and, deeming this the surer one, was giving it his personal supervision. He calculated correctly.

When Captain Drake and his retinue were leaving the castle, a native youth who waited upon the soldiers slipped a packet into the hands of the last man, with a whispered injunction to secrecy. The soldier handed the papers to the captain as soon as he was aboard again. A few minutes later Nick and Ned Johnson were sent for into the cabin. The first question caused each one to prick up his single ear pretty sharply.

"Were you the only ones who escaped death when Captain Oxenham was slain?"

"No, some boys were spared."

"Have they ever reached England?"

"As far as we know, no. The priests told us that some of them abjured their faith and had received pardon."

Captain Drake passed some papers across the table. "Look at this drawing."

The brothers did so, and looked at one another pretty shrewdly also.

"What do you make out of it?"

"'Tis a guide to the buried spoil."

The skipper read a rough, explanatory scrawl from the back of the paper. It purported to have been written by one of the lads who had been in San Joseph on a Spanish ship since the departure of the Golden Boar. He explained that he wished his countrymen to know that the treasure had never been found by the Dons, and added that he had bribed the native to give the paper to them if they came back. He would not affix his name, because he was ashamed of his weakness in renouncing his faith and nationality.

The tale was plausible enough and cunningly set forth. Less credulous men than the eager adventurers would have been deceived by it. The English was rough, homely, ill-spelt, and unscholarly, and might well have been written by one of the lads. One thing was certain—it could not have been written by a Spaniard. It was written, indeed, by the renegade Basil.

Needless to say the bait was swallowed. The Golden Boar made a hurried departure from San Joseph, and went westwards along the coast towards the Isthmus of Panama. Basil had gone thither in a Spanish galleon some twelve days before, and was already ashore awaiting them, and daily expecting a strong body of troops from Panama itself. The adventurers, hopes renewed, were putting on all sail to enter a cunningly laid trap.

Apparently fortune was going to favour them at last. Less than a day's sail from Trinidad they sighted a Spanish ship. They had vowed war against everything Spanish, and were resolved not to go home with an empty hold. The helm was put about, and they bore down on their prey. The vessel was not a large one, but it was well manned. To the order to strike his flag, the captain replied with a well-directed shot. The vessels closed. A sharp fight ensued, and the adventurers won. The prize was a good one, and the bold band, deeming their enterprise a high and honourable one, loudly thanked God for His goodness. Then they sailed on, eager for fresh conquests.

Even the least hopeful man cast away his doubts and fears. Hitherto they had searched for what no man had found; now they were going for a treasure whose position was definitely set forth, and, moreover, they were on the beaten track where so many of their daring fellow-countrymen had found fortune. Spanish ships they must meet; and when they met them, well, there was but one thing to do—they must capture them. To their reawakened spirits the matter was the plainest of plain sailing. And the glorious sea, too, had washed the fever from them; they were grown strong and hearty once more. The singers sang, the fiddlers played, and Master Jeffreys, Nick and Ned Johnson told their tales afresh. The generous fellows remembered the brave lives that had been sacrificed to gain the treasure they were going to carry off so easily. As far as the memory of the survivors would allow, a list of Oxenham's crew was drawn up; their homes, where known, were placed against their names, and it was resolved that half of what they recovered should go to the relatives of the dead men. Not one man murmured against the decision; it seemed to them the right and proper thing to do: there were no craven or selfish hearts aboard the Golden Boar.

And so the eager days sped on. No more possible prizes were sighted, and the time came when keen eyes no longer looked seawards at all. The ship was hugging the shore, and Nick Johnson or his brother spent hours at the masthead searching for a familiar landmark. More than once was the anchor dropped, and a boat sent up a promising creek in the hope that it would prove the long-sought one. Failure after failure was reported, but the search only grew the keener. The adventurers were determined to beat every mile of the coast if necessary. At length came the joyous forenoon when Nick gave a frantic hurrah from his lofty perch. Ho had sighted the bare bluff, the wooded background, and the narrow, winding inlet. His brother was quickly beside him, and almost immediately shouted his reassuring opinion to the expectant company. The goal was reached at last!

There was no need to send an exploring boat this time. Nick stayed where he was, and Ned took the helm. A gentle breeze took the Golden Boar into the sheltered anchorage. The trees encircling the little inland bay shut her in just as the sun went down behind them. And the gallant fellows—strange mixture of pirate and patriot—piously and whole-heartedly bared their heads and thanked God for His bounteous mercies!



Chapter XL.

A HAVEN OF PEACE.

The night passed; a night of happy contentment. In picturesque groups on the deck the company slept, their eyes covered from the light of the tropical night. The sentry tramped the deck, listened to the cries from the forest and the salty pool, watched the fireflies as they darted to and fro, and called out the hours and the state of the night whenever the ship's bell sent its musical note echoing from bank to bank of the creek, and rousing the denizens of the forest around. A bird sang in the grove, tuning its lay to reproduce the notes of every songster that had warbled during the daytime. The scents from the masses of flowers, that clustered the banks and wound their tendrils round the giant trees, floated fragrantly on the night air. There was peace in the heavens above and the downward glances of the quiet-eyed stars; there was peace in forest and pool, and sweet sounds and fragrant odours; the ship rocked gently on the flowing tide in a haven that might have been a harbour on the shores of a paradise. And the sleeping men dreamed pleasant dreams, for the scents of the flowers came insensibly into their nostrils, and the song of the bird beat rhythmically on their resting brains. Here, a sailor laughed softly and musically in his sleep; there, a gallant young gentleman murmured a beloved name, as the face of the one beloved passed by in a sweet vision of the night. In his sleep many a one was already at the home where he would be; his hard-won treasures glittered on the familiar table, and he gave this to one and that to another, hung a chain on a fair young neck or pressed a ring on a dainty finger. Johnnie Morgan stood by the river, exactly as he had stood on that bright March morning when Dolly came up and begged for a reconciliation. She came again; the gulls flew over the sands, and the sun shone warmly. Ah! how long it was since that March morning.

The feathered singer in the tree ceased his singing, and hid his head under his wing as his bright-plumaged fellows had done. The stars paled; nature stirred in her sleep; the sailor on the deck felt the tremor that quivered through the animate world, and rubbed his eyes more vigorously. A breeze moved through the trees; the ripple of the water was more distinct; there was a splash—another—another. A frog croaked sleepily to his fellows, and got no answer for a while. A yellow band stretched across the eastern horizon; it tinged the heaving waters, it flecked the trees with gold. The whole forest rustled and twittered. A bird flew down to the water. A parrot screamed noisily; a sleeper started up from his hard couch. The sentinel cried the hour, and announced a fine morning. The world heard him and woke up.

The day was to be a day of great things. Overnight nothing had been done, and no man had gone ashore. The decks were cleaned, prayers said, breakfast eaten, and the rough plan of Oxenham's hiding-place nailed down on the compass-box, where all could see it. Then Captain Drake and the gentlemen of the company went ashore with Nick and Ned Johnson. Hearts beat excitedly in the ship's boat, and hearts throbbed in unison amongst those who waited on the deck. The party landed. They clambered up the bank and pushed aside the tangled undergrowth, some of the men using their swords in order to make the quicker way. Some one kicks against a mass of green creeper; his boot strikes something wooden and hollow; he has not lighted upon an empty bush. Quickly he tears aside the clinging mass; a beautifully striped snake wriggles out, hissing angrily. The man scarcely heeds the dangerous thing. He shouts aloud; the others come up. What has he found? The ruins of one of Oxenham's boats. Nick recognizes it. "I worked to help build it," he says softly. "The Dons came upon us before we could finish." The rough fellow uncovered his head.

The adventurers gazed with a strange interest upon the relic of a former bold adventure. They turned it over almost reverently. "Brave John Oxenham!" murmured Captain Drake.

But sentimental recollections were soon swept away. The discovery of the half-finished boat put aside all doubts as to the identity of their anchorage with that of Oxenham's. "How far off was the treasure buried?" was the next eager question.

"Just out of the tide-way in the heart of a cluster of mangroves; we notched the biggest tree," answered Nick. He looked around. "Yonder's the spot," he cried. All followed him.

The quick-growing vegetation had enwreathed the trees with gay creepers, but Nick soon found the mark of the axe on the bark. Undergrowths choked up the gaps between the trunks of the trees, but a couple of axes cleared a path. The men thronged into the inner space. The ground was hard and overgrown, and certainly had not been touched for a long time. Hopes rose higher than ever. Apparently the ground had never been disturbed since Oxenham's visit. Captain Drake decided to get to work at once. He rowed back to the ship, ordered the pickaxes and shovels to be brought up from below, and chose out a first gang of sailors and soldiers to go ashore and commence digging. A couple of hours ought to suffice for the securing of the treasure.

The men tumbled into the boat, eager enough to begin. They rowed ashore, stripped themselves to the waist, and set to work with a will, cheering one another on with boisterous jests. Captain Drake remained aboard. Sir John Trelawny and some of the adventurers superintended the digging. Timothy Jeffreys and Johnnie Morgan wandered off along the stream, hoping to light upon some game for the replenishing of the larder. Nick Johnson pointed out a spring, and others of the company busied themselves filling the barrels with fresh water. All were animated, and occupied in some useful way or other.



Chapter XLI.

THE TRAP.

A cheery proverb declares there is no cloud so black that it hath not a silver lining. Conversely we may say that there is no sky so blue that no cloud is gathering in it. The sky over the heads of Captain Drake and his men glowed like a firelit, flawless sapphire; yet behind, where the giant trees shut out the view of the heavens, a cloud was gathering, charged with the very mirk of death.

For days and nights before the Golden Boar had come abreast of the mouth of the creek, the summit of the bluff had not been without a keen-eyed sentinel. Squatted on his haunches, or lying prone on the grass, a patient Indian had scanned sea and horizon for a sign of a sail. His watch was duly rewarded. He heard the shout of the lookout man; saw the ship put about for the entrance near which he lay; then he slipped into the trees behind him, and ran down the declivity and through the forest like a creature born to a life in the tree-packed solitudes. He passed round the bay, and ran for another couple of miles along the creek. Then, in a natural clearing, he came upon a tent around which were gathered about fifty warriors of his own tribe. At the entrance to the tent he bowed himself down to the earth, and lay there until a voice bade him arise.

"The ship of the white men, O my father!"

"Where?"

"They come into the harbourage."

"Get thy canoe." Basil came forth, and was soon speeding down to the bay. He got out on the side opposite to the cluster of mangroves, climbed a tree, and watched the Golden Boar as it beat into the narrow entrance from the sea. The sun shone on the gilded monster that stood "rampant" under the bows and lit up the tall figure of Morgan, who stood watching the muddy waters as they ran lapping along the sides of the ship. Basil recognized all, and smiled in triumph. He went back to his tent and dispatched swift messengers along the track across the isthmus; the Spanish troops were lagging somewhere on the road, and must needs be hurried.

All that night, sleepless, noiseless Indians lay near the ship and heard every call of the watch. With the coming of the dawn they slipped farther back, but maintained a close espionage. Basil's messenger returned. The troops were bivouacked not far away. They would start with the earliest light, and might be expected within two hours of sunrising. The natives were sent down to the fringe of the bay to keep unseen watch over every movement of the Englishmen. Basil waited for the white troops. His plans were carefully made, and he hoped to capture the ship and every soul of her company.

Morgan and Jeffreys pushed their way through the trees, seeking some open glade where deer might be feeding. Each carried bow and arrows, so that the quarry might be obtained without raising any alarm that might arouse near-dwelling natives or any chance party of Spaniards. The laughter of their comrades died away behind them little by little, and was presently lost altogether. Once or twice the undergrowth rustled, and both paused, hoping to sight some eatable prey; but they saw nothing, and wandered farther and farther on.

They had gone for nearly a mile, when suddenly an Indian stood in their path. The fellow paused for an instant, then turned and fled as though in affright. Both were about to cry out to reassure him, when they were stealthily assailed from behind. A native cloth or blanket was thrown over the head of each; brown arms closed round and pinioned their limbs. They were thrown to the ground, and a heavy blow on the head rendered them unconscious. They had no chance to cry out, and were trapped with scarcely a struggle. When they recovered their senses they were in a canoe going rapidly up-stream; their heads were still muffled, and their limbs bound with tight thongs.

Between the trees the digging went on merrily enough. About three feet down a skull was found; then another; then various human bones. These gruesome discoveries checked the singing and laughter, and for a while the men worked in silence. But there was nothing to dull the spirits of the water-carriers, and they romped and skylarked like a party of schoolboys. Those on board ship envied their companions who were ashore, and the relief digging party leant over the bulwarks, eager to take their turn amongst the mangroves.

Meanwhile a net of fire and steel was being drawn around the workers.

The net was set; every mesh was tested, and yet the fowler hesitated to draw it in: all the birds were not gathered in the baited area. The water-carriers were too far from the diggers, and the ship rode clear of the shore. The Indian allies hid, waiting with inexhaustible patience. The Spanish troops were restless and ill-controlled. They saw two small parties of Englishmen busily engaged, and without suspicion of danger. It was so easy to form two bands, surround and capture all. Barely a dozen men remained aboard the ship; surely they could seize the vessel at their leisure! The Spanish commander did not possess Basil's gift of caution. He determined to attack, and launched a mixed force against the water-carriers and seized every one. Another band dashed for the mangroves; but warning had been given. Sir John and his gentlemen whipped out their swords, and the workers seized pick-axe and shovel. Captain Drake saw the movement in the trees, shouted an alarm, and at once turned his guns on the rustling patch. A couple of terrific charges followed; trees splintered and crashed, and the Indian allies fled in terror, freeing some of the water-carriers, who plunged at once into the bay and swam to the ship. The group of mangroves was a natural fortress, and the Dons failed to get in at the first rush. The flight of the Indians threw them into a momentary disorder; and Captain Drake, instant in appreciating an opportunity, turned a gun a little wide of the cluster, and sent a ball smashing into the rallying place of the foe. Covered by the armed gentlemen, the workers retreated to their boat; arrows and a few musket balls flew after them, but the ship's guns again spoke out, and no Don dared show himself. The boat was reached at the cost of a few wounds. At the ship's side the men received arms, and the soldiers aboard leaped down to take the place of the wounded. The boat went ashore once more, and the whole of its company made for the spring, hoping to rescue the men there. The enemy opposed their way, but they drove them before them, and the guns from the vessel swept and cleared the surrounding patches of woodland. The spring was reached; the Dons had fled; and the marks of the short struggle were all the rescue party discovered. They followed the trail for a while, but the foe had got the start and the help of their native guides. The men reluctantly returned to the shore of the bay, fortunately picking up a couple of wounded sailors on their way. The undergrowth around was diligently searched, but it yielded nothing alive.

The ship's roll was called, and the losses counted. No one had seen anything of Jeffreys and Morgan since the first landing; they had gone a-hunting, and their fate could hardly be doubted. The digging party had escaped death and capture, and no man was seriously wounded. Of the water party, the two Johnsons, who had acted as leaders, were wounded and prisoners; three others were captives with them; the rest had escaped. There were no further attempts at digging that day. This was, perhaps, just as well, for the earth contained no treasure. The Dons had seized that long before.



Chapter XLII.

CAPTIVES.

The wonderful name of Drake saved the expedition from irretrievable disaster. "For England, boys!" Sir John had shouted as he laid about him in the mangrove trees. "For Drake and Devon!" shouted a Plymouth tar, and his comrades had hurrahed at his words. "Ay, remember the skipper's name!" Sir John had replied; "defeat and Drake don't go together!" These shouted words, and the promptness of the round shot from the ship, had really equal effects in scattering the foe. The Spanish commander, when he rallied his men farther back at the springs, asked Nick Johnson who his captain was.

"Drake of Plymouth!" cried Nick; "and take heed to it, ye dirty Papist. Ye'll regret this business before sunset!"

And the soldiers were of their foeman's opinion. Their leader deemed discretion the better part of valour. He had lost some men; his allies had fled; five prisoners were in his hands. So far he could claim a victory, and he was resolved not to lose one leaf from his scanty laurels. "Drake" was an incarnation of the devil; every Don in America knew that; it was useless fighting the redoubtable sailor, for no man could defeat or kill him. The Spanish captain decided on a movement to the rear. In vain Basil stormed and raved, and vowed that the dreaded Drake was not within a thousand leagues of the isthmus. The soldiers remembered that the speaker was a renegade Englishman, and refused to believe him.

Basil left them to go on to Panama, whilst he returned to the Indian camp and the two prisoners whose clever capture he had superintended. The Indians had gone, and Morgan and Jeffreys were left gagged and bound. The Jesuit was furious. His first impulse was to kill his captives and leave their bodies to be found by their companions, who would assuredly make some search for them. But a moment's reflection made him abandon that plan. Had he desired only their death, it would have been easier for the Indians to shoot them than to capture them. One of the two, Morgan, was an old foe; he had done much to thwart the scheme for firing the Forest of Dean, a scheme which would have brought Basil nothing less than a bishopric had it succeeded. He was one of those who had slain Father Jerome, and must expiate his many offences. The angry man had little objection to letting out Master Timothy's life at a blow, but Morgan must have no such easy ending. So he left the two, half-stifled in their blankets, and went into the woods and along the creek, calling in the hope of attracting some stray Indians. After a while, the chief and about a dozen others straggled back.